“Dearest, kindest Mrs. Pendennis,” Lady Clara wrote, with many italics, and evidently in much distress of mind. “Your visit is not to be. I spoke about it to Sir B., who arrived this afternoon, and who has already begun to treat me in his usual way. Oh, I am so unhappy! Pray, pray do not be angry at this rudeness—though indeed it is only a kindness to keep you from this wretched place! I feel as if I cannot bear this much longer. But, whatever happens, I shall always remember your goodness, your beautiful goodness and kindness; and shall worship you as an angel deserves to be worshipped. Oh, why had I not such a friend earlier! But alas! I have none—only his odious family thrust upon me for companions to the wretched, lonely, C. N.
“P.S.—He does not know of my writing. Do not be surprised if you get another note from me in the morning, written in a ceremonious style and regretting that we cannot have the pleasure of receiving Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis for the present at Newcome.
“P.S.—The hypocrite!”
This letter was handed to my wife at dinner-time, and she gave it to me as she passed out of the room with the other ladies.
I told Florac that the Newcomes could not receive us, and that we would remain, if he willed it, his guests for a little longer. The kind fellow was only too glad to keep us. “My wife would die without Bébi,” he said. “She becomes quite dangerous about Bébi.” It was gratifying that the good old lady was not to be parted as yet from the innocent object of her love.
My host knew as well as I the terms upon which Sir Barnes and his wife were living. Their quarrels were the talk of the whole county; one side brought forward his treatment of her, and his conduct elsewhere, and said that he was so bad that honest people should not know him. The other party laid the blame upon her, and declared that Lady Clara was a languid, silly, weak, frivolous creature; always crying out of season; who had notoriously taken Sir Barnes for his money and who as certainly had had an attachment elsewhere. Yes, the accusations were true on both sides. A bad, selfish husband had married a woman for her rank: a weak, thoughtless girl had been sold to a man for his money; and the union, which might have ended in a complete indifference, had taken an ill turn and resulted in misery, cruelty, fierce mutual recriminations, bitter tears shed in private, husband’s curses and maledictions, and open scenes of wrath and violence for servants to witness and the world to sneer at. We arrange such matches every day; we sell or buy beauty, or rank, or wealth; we inaugurate the bargain in churches with sacramental services, in which the parties engaged call upon Heaven to witness their vows—we know them to be lies, and we seal them with God’s name. “I, Barnes, promise to take you, Clara, to love and honour till death do us part” “I Clara, promise to take you, Barnes,” etc, etc. Who has not heard the ancient words; and how many of us have uttered them, knowing them to be untrue: and is there a bishop on the bench that has not amen’d the humbug in his lawn sleeves and called a blessing over the kneeling perjurers?
“Does Mr. Harris know of Newcome’s return?” Florac asked, when I acquainted him with this intelligence. “Ce scelerat de Highgate—Va!”
“Does Newcome know that Lord Highgate is here?” I thought within myself, admiring my wife’s faithfulness and simplicity, and trying to believe with that pure and guileless creature that it was not yet too late to save the unhappy Lady Clara.
“Mr. Harris had best be warned,” I said to Florac; “will you write him a word, and let us send a messenger to Newcome?”
At first Florac said, “Parbleu! No;” the affair was none of his, he attended himself always to this result of Lady Clara’s marriage. He had even complimented Jack upon it years before at Baden, when scenes enough tragic, enough comical, ma foi, had taken place à propos of this affair. Why should he meddle with it now?